Chapter 3
Story: The Stiletto Heel on Her Ribs Was Just the Beginning—He Walked In and the Camera Was Still Rolling
The fetal monitor's steady rhythm was the most beautiful sound Camille had ever heard.
She lay in a private recovery bay in the maternity suite, her ribs taped, her temple cleaned and stitched with five careful sutures, while a small speaker amplified the baby's heartbeat into the quiet room. Every few seconds, the sound pulsed: strong, regular, perfect.
"She's stubborn," the attending physician, a compact woman named Dr. Haddad, said as she reviewed the screen. "Heart rate is stable, movements are excellent. The ribs will hurt for a few weeks, but there's no damage to the baby. No sign of distress."
Camille's hand moved to her stomach. "She?"
Dr. Haddad smiled, a rare crack in her professional armor. "Off the record? Yes. She's measuring right on track. A strong girl, by the looks of it."
Camille let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Thank you."
"Rest. I'll have someone bring you water and something to eat. The painkillers are safe for pregnancy, but the nurse will check in within the hour." Dr. Haddad paused at the door. "Your uncle asked me to tell you he's in the security office. He said to tell you 'the tapes are beautiful.'"
Camille's heart squeezed. "Is my husband—"
"He's outside. Hasn't moved from the hallway for an hour. He's been asking to come in, but your uncle's instructions were strict." The doctor's eyes flickered with something like approval. "The man who interrupted the recording? He doesn't get to see you until you're ready."
Camille closed her eyes. The baby's heartbeat filled the room, a small drum keeping time. Part of her wanted to see Marcus, to feel his arms around her, to believe the hesitation she'd seen in his face meant nothing.
But she'd seen it.
She'd seen the terrible, quiet second where he'd looked at two women—one bleeding, one crying—and chosen the crying one. It had only been a heartbeat, but it was the heartbeat that mattered. The one where instinct made its decision.
A soft knock on the doorjamb made her open her eyes. Richard Sterling stood there, his charcoal jacket draped over one arm, his sleeves rolled to his elbows.
"We're bringing her by the holding room." He crossed to the chair beside the bed and sat down, his big hands resting on his knees. "She's not under arrest yet, but the consultant from the DA's office is on his way. They'll want a statement, but not tonight." He looked at her. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got kicked in the ribs by a woman wearing knives, and like my baby is the strongest person I know." Camille tried to smile. "In that order."
Richard's mouth didn't move, but his eyes softened a fraction. "The recordings are clean. Three angles, full coverage. You can hear everything. The shove against the window ledge. The crystal glasses hitting the floor. The heel connecting with your ribs. And her voice, clear as a bell: 'I'm here to make sure you never carry his child again.'"
The words hung in the air between them. Camille let them sink in, let them settle into her bones. Eleanor Prescott had said those words. In front of a camera that recorded everything.
"She's going to say she was provoked." Camille's voice was quiet. "That I said something to set her off."
"She'll say a lot of things." Richard leaned back. "That's what people like her do. They circle, they spin, they find the one detail that lets them walk away. But she can't spin this, Camille. Not with what we have."
"What do we have? The recordings were motion-activated. They started when she came in. But I want to know what happened before that." She sat up, wincing at the pull in her ribs. "She said she'd been planning this for six months. She said she'd been involved with Marcus before we were married. She said he almost proposed to her."
Richard's eyes narrowed. "Is that what she told you?"
"Was it true?"
Richard was silent for a long moment. The baby's heartbeat filled the gap, steady and strong.
"There was talk, years ago. Before you came along." He spoke carefully, the way he always did when he was weighing out facts. "Marcus and Eleanor had a business partnership, and there was a period when they were seen together often enough that people drew conclusions. But I never heard that he was planning to propose. I heard that he ended things cleanly when he met you."
Camille looked down at her hands. The diamond pendant at her throat caught the light, a small star against the pale skin of her chest. Marcus had given it to her on their first anniversary. He'd told her it was a promise.
"All these months," she said slowly, "she's been watching us. Waiting. And tonight she decided to act."
"She picked the worst possible venue." Richard's voice was grim, almost amused. "You know what she said to the security guards when they pulled her off the elevator? She said she was your guest. Said you'd invited her up to talk about a surprise for Marcus." He shook his head. "The guards are used to confusion on the maternity floor. Drunk uncles, nervous grandmothers. They didn't think to check."
"It's not their fault."
"No. It's hers." Richard reached out and took her hand, his grip warm and steady. "You're not going to believe what the hospital's lawyers found in her file. She used to volunteer on the pediatric floor, three years ago. She has a badge that's still active in the system. A low-level volunteer badge that lets her in through the staff entrances."
Camille's eyes widened. "She didn't break in. She used her old badge."
"It was never deactivated. Someone in volunteer services missed the termination paperwork." He let go of her hand and sat back. "The same someone who's going to be having a long conversation with hospital administration tomorrow morning."
"So she'd been planning this for weeks." Camille's voice was faint. "She came prepared."
"She came prepared to attack you. She did not come prepared for the cameras." Richard's phone buzzed, and he glanced at it. "That's the DA's consultant. He wants to meet tomorrow morning to review the footage. He's already looking at assault charges, maybe attempted involuntary manslaughter given the pregnancy."
"That's not enough."
Richard's eyes met hers. "What do you want?"
Camille thought about the fear in Eleanor's voice, the practiced tears, the way she'd spun the story in less than a second when Marcus walked through the door. She thought about the heel connecting with her ribs, the taste of marble in her mouth, the moment when she wasn't sure the baby was okay.
"I want everyone to know," she said quietly.
Richard tilted his head.
"I want the world to know what she did. I want her reputation destroyed the way she wanted my family destroyed. I want every woman who's ever been made to feel like she was imagining the threat, like she was overreacting, like she should have been nicer, calmer, more understanding—I want them to see this woman, in her emerald gown and her diamond earrings, kicking a pregnant woman in the ribs because she was jealous."
Richard was silent for a long moment. Then a slow smile spread across his weathered face.
"I can do that," he said. "The hospital has a public relations team. They're very good at controlling the narrative. And tonight, they've been handed a gift."
Camille felt her own mouth curve into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Good. Then let's tell them to prepare."
The baby kicked, as if approving the plan.
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